


ANNIVERSARY SONG

by SILKCUT



Series: ɪɴꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱɪʟᴋᴄᴜᴛ [23]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, Crossover, Fanon, Gen, Inscribed by SILKCUT, Mojoworld, Twitter Solo Roleplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29078256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SILKCUT/pseuds/SILKCUT
Summary: Carrion Cove had been under the stewardship of the Eisenhardts in the last six decades. It was nothing but a hollow sanctuary now, however, where only Magnus dwelt. His only daughter left Genoshan shores because she wanted to become a part of a society that isn’t defined by their gifts and uniqueness, unlike the mutantkind she belonged to.Meanwhile, situated two hundred miles away was said city of Hammer Bay, where co-steward Simón Napolitano lived with his husband Frank and the seven children.A chance encounter with a time-traveling Englishwoman would change the lives of these two men and their families.
Series: ɪɴꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱɪʟᴋᴄᴜᴛ [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132040





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

**ﾒ**

Ｓｉｍóｎ Ｎａｐｏｌｉｔａｎｏ

**ﾒ**

* * *

##  **༻✧**

_I drove a wedge between the day and night_

_My fear is casting a shadow_

_This guilt trip's driving down the street tonight_

_My spirit takes me through this avenue_

**THEYBECOMESONGS**

He wasn’t the first man who waltzed into her life with nothing but an electric guitar and dark Ray-ban shades. It automatically earned a smile and second glance from the blue uniform-clad waitress, who was the only one around inside this consequently empty eatery.

Her eyes are trained to observe people’s behavior after a decade of working as a schoolteacher prior to this new gig. This was why transitioning from that vocation to something just as people-centered felt only natural. She was just about to brandish her sparkling wit when the door left ajar was pushed open by a little girl no older than eight.

“Blimey,” she said under her breath as soon as she saw that the child carried a small amplifier in both arms. With her skinny pale legs showing under a yellow skirt, she bounced with each step, quite jittery in pace, which also matched her nervous smile.

“Come on then, cherry pie, give that to Daddy,” the man immediately grabbed the amp—just after he laid the guitar against a stool—and set it down next to said instrument, facing the bar. He then placed his hands under the girl’s arms to lift her so she can sit on another stool.

“Just grab a menu by the condiments,” she called out since she was still in the middle of heating up freshly brewed coffee with her back turned against the new customers. “Got milkshake and pastries, if your daughter has a sweet tooth, but I can also cook you both a breakfast spread in case you want something more filling.”

There’s a pregnant pause which lasted for a second or two before the man answered in a crisp accent that’s certainly American yet she can’t place regionally.

“A milkshake for the little lady would be dandy, miss, but I’d like some of that fragrance from the pot you’re boiling over there.”

There’s a mirror above her that would allow the waitress to look at them even if she was still facing the other side.

She saw that the young girl was clinging onto her father’s arm, with her left temple resting against him. She had ruddy freckled cheeks that rivalled the fire-kissed locks of her shoulder-length hair. At some point she looked at the mirror on the wall and must have noticed that the woman was watching, so she hid her face, all shy and smiling.

Now smiling herself, the waitress walked over with a mug and the pot of coffee on the other hand. She poured it right in front of the man as she asked, “Any reason why you kept driving around the car park earlier before deciding to stay and visit my diner anyway, Mr…?”

“I’d tell you my name if you wear yours proud on that uniform,” he retorted but with a sweeter tone which she believed was almost charming. He then tore a packet of sugar and cream before he took a sip of the coffee and gave a small hum of approval.

“Nametags seem rather silly when I’m the only one around,” she perked up as she answered, “I’m Clara.”

He graciously smiled back, “Then you may call me Simón, Clara.”

Now that she’s much closer, she could appreciate every detail in the man’s appearance; the old-fashioned styled hair reminscient of Elvis which flattered his cherubic face with a clean-shaven jawline, and a tattoo of some phrase peeking from the open-buttoned collar of his mahogany dress shirt with fringes.

Even though his eyes are obscured, Clara just knew this was a beautiful man, who’s somewhere in the middle age, possessing noticeably dainty fingers that were slightly tanned except, perhaps, the skin underneath the wedding band on his left ring finger.

“And what’s the little angel’s name?”

The father sipped his coffee again as the young girl piped up, “Katherine.” Her smile was still painfully shy as she fiddled with one of the red-striped straws she got from the counter, “But you may just call me Kate.”

“Hello, Kate,” Clara showcased her dimples as she renewed her own smile and learned against her side of the counter. She folded her arms on the surface and asked in a cajoling tone, “Would you like a milkshake and a slice of cherry pie? It’s what your dad just called you earlier, yeah? Luckily for you, I made some just an hour ago.”

Kate looked over at her old man then giggled. “Yeah, he likes to call me and my brothers and sisters with food names. But yes, I would like some pie, if you have some, Miss Clara. Thank you kindly.”

The waitress beamed. Such a courteous, cheerful girl, no doubt raised right by her dad. “Isn’t the missus with you, Mister Simón?”

“I’m not spoken for to any woman, Clara,” he dropped the formality yet sounded just as charming, “Save my late mama, God bless her.”

Smoothly, she remarked, “Husband then?”

“Right on,” he grinned just before he removed his Ray-bans. _Finally_ , Clara thought, and she was not disappointed by the pair of green peepers she now found herself looking into. Her smile only faltered once the recognition formed behind her own eyes. If the man noticed, he was far too polite to make a needless comment.

Instead, he inquired, “Never seen a diner like this around these parts before, with a skeleton staff of one, who’s an Englishwoman at that.”

“It’s a traveling diner,” she casually shrugged, her smile coy, just as she broke eye contact and feigned wiping a rag across the countertop.

Simón was still staring, and she recalled being on the receiving end of such silent inquiry in his gaze from two versions of the man himself—carbon copies who existed in other worlds and grew up under conditions both harsh and fair, and only she alone could differentiate who from whom.

Clara was unfazed—she was the Impossible Girl after all. Adventure was her life’s calling, and time travel was the transit in which it flourished. Long ago in a place called Trenzalore, she split herself into a million versions, so many living and dying Claras across time and space, just so she can save a man who by now has forgotten everything about her—except for the name and a persistent itch to learn more.

“Do you have the proper license, Clara?” came the man’s next inquiry, just as she turned away so she could warm up the cherry pie in the oven. She detected urgency in his tone, even though he remained ever courteous, much like the daughter he raised.

“Didn’t get to register myself since I did just arrive here thirty minutes ago,” she waved, “Give me a mo. We can talk about this once I serve the orders. I don’t want to keep the girl waiting…” and she disappeared at the back where her pristine kitchen can be found.

The man didn’t seem like he was going anywhere. He looked so calm and content next to his daughter as he sipped his coffee, yet there was an edge to his demeanor that spelled out to Clara that she should never try to deceive him. Not that she would dream of it. The last two versions she ran into before were quite the troublemakers themselves.

Clara returned ten minutes later with a plate of cherry pie and a tall glass of milkshake, just as Simón was plucking away on his electric guitar. The tune was a blues song Clara recognized but couldn’t name, and it warmed her to see Kate watching her father play with such intense concentration, as if she means to learn it through just observation alone. The woman has seen that same inquisitive, almost mature look in the eyes of a few exceptional children before.

“What grade are you in now, Kate?” she asked a moment later after the girl had her first bite of the pie.

“Fifth, Miss,” she chewed slowly before answering, all while one gloved hand covers her mouth. The mittens she wore were lacy pink, a great contrast to the yellow dress and her milky complexion, “I was accelerated from two grades, even though I’m only nine.”

“Quite remarkable, yes,” Clara graced the child with another dimpled smile. “Your father must be proud.”

“It wouldn’t take grand accomplishments from my children to make me proud,” Simón interjected with a twinkle in his eye, “Nor could their perceived failings ever make me love them any less.”

And he reached to tenderly pinch one of Kate’s already rosy cheeks. She looked down on her lap as if she was trying to hide away her smile. Afterwards, her father continued to strum, all while humming lyrics under his breath. Ah, Clara so did miss his singing—well, at least, the melodies she heard from the two other versions of this man.

When one has traveled to so many impossible places and met a great number of incomparable heroes (sometimes also villains), one is no longer shocked to find that there are no coincidences, no matter the permeating chaos of the cosmos. And so meeting yet another Simon, or ‘Nobody—or, in this case, ‘Simón’, did not alarm Clara.

“Honey cakes, do you mind fetching Daddy’s things back in the car so I can validate Miss Clara’s parking over here?” He fished his keys from the breast pocket of his shirt. Without even asking what ‘things’ these are, Kate seemed to understand already, so she merely excused herself and left.

“So,” Clara spoke next, “…about the registration—“

“This will sound kinda kooky, Miss Clara,” Simón interrupted, though not unkindly, “But I’ve been repeatedly seeing your diner in my dreams for almost a month now. You wouldn’t have an idea why that is, would you? It’s a little discombobulating, I daresay. That’s why I hesitated to come in here, especially with my little girl, as you pointed out earlier.”

She blinked. Clara was the type of woman who’s quick on her feet and quicker yet with retort. But this was a troubling discovery, and so she employed a more measured approach, accompanied by the well-known tactic of the British that conveys detached interest and tact—this keen sense to downplay alarm.

“Did you truly?” she leaned her elbows on the counter and watched his eyes, “Are the dreams at least pleasant?”

Simón chuckled and leaned closer as if to match her strategy with the coyness of his own. “If this diner came to me in flashes of a nightmare, you best believe, missy, that I wouldn’t have hesitated as I did.”

He certainly intended to leave that phrase to her imagination.

Already Clara has noticed many obvious similarities among the three versions of the same man, but there will always be these little caveats that make distinction entirely possible.

Simon Dove from the Earth she grew up in purposely made himself inconspicuous since he was still closeted as a mutant, so it was more out of self-protection, especially because he was a boy who grew up with betrayal at home and in his dissolved marriage. Still, he was kind and wise because experience taught him he should be, not just for himself but for the young boy he’s raising. Clara believed if it wasn’t for her current circumstances (ergo, being dead and quantum-locked), maybe she and Simon could have had a go at something more substantial than simply being passing ships in the night.

And then there was ‘Nobody’ of the ferocious Mojoworld. He announced his presence with crackles of contempt for the humanity he never fully developed; this misshapen mutant who was more alien to himself than he would like to admit. Clara cared for him only as a caretaker would put up with an unruly child.

“Shall we figure it out together then?” she pulled away from the countertop but kept the smile intact.

“WelI, I see no reason to let you out of my sight when you are my only clue in solving this mystery,” he rose from his stool and strapped on the guitar just as he pulled out the wire from the amp. “We will get your registration sorted out, once Kate—oh, here she is now, my little pride and joy!”

It was at this point that Clara crossed the threshold that separated her as a hostess from her patrons, all so she could come with him wherever he planned on taking her. She herself saw no reason not to offer her assistance. It’s who she has become now.

Even on first impression alone, this man—this Simón—with his melodious, sort of old-timey accent and cowboy sense of fashion, did not hide who he is but nor is he so intent on uplifting himself as more superior than everything else. He was like an airy dessert, light upon the tongue, but memorable on the mouth for hours to come. Clara shouldn’t make such ridiculous analogies like with a happily married man, not with his daughter right there, looking up at her with curious caution.

“I hope you don’t mind if I send a few men right now to inspect the facilities of your traveling diner,” he held the door open. “It’s the rules of my world, Miss Clara. I mean, if you’d like, you can lock up the doors to your private spaces you’d rather not have scrutinized.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she was the portrait of wilful obedience even with her arms crossed.

“Alrightie then, missy,”

Clara got the impression that if Simón wore a hat, he would have tipped it at her by now. Instead, he waited for her and Kate—armed with the amplifier where a stuffed toy should have been—to step out.

It was only then that he remarked, “Welcome to New Genosha.”

* * *

**ﾒ**

**[@ATOMICCLEF](https://twitter.com/atomicclef) **

**ﾒ**

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

**ﾒ**

Ｓｉｍóｎ Ｎａｐｏｌｉｔａｎｏ

**ﾒ**

* * *

##  **༻✧**

░T░w░o░ ░y░e░a░r░s░ ░a░g░o░

He can see in Frank’s eyes that he was so over this already, even as he said nothing while he rowed his own boat from across the lake.

It wasn’t as if he feared the great outdoors; no one was more extroverted than the man Simón married, so the condescending roll of his eyes just now must still be because of the clothes Simón had their children wear. It was almost as if they put them on solely to indulge one father and make the other cringe, which wasn’t a far-fetched theory.

“Now, now, it’s a classic for a reason, Frankie,” Simón had commented an hour ago back in the cabin as the family got ready for the trip. “And don’t you think it kismet that we are blessed with the same amount of talented kids as the Von Trapps had been?”

Donned only in a dark bathrobe, he walked with such purpose to his gait—even if only towards the glass doors—so that he could gesture at the sensational seven in question, who have gathered by the docks as they waited for their parents.

The oldest boy Bobby was chasing Hank with a frog whilst the eldest Alison looked on in disappointment but didn’t interject. The younger sisters—Betsy and Emma—were inseparable once more, with their raven and blonde hair respectively styled in the same manner. Meanwhile, the Katherines trailed behind much farther. Kitty, the older one, helped Kate to tie the sash of the dress around her waist.

It’s more than clear that Frank was filled with so much warmth at the sight of their healthy kids, and yet for his husband’s question, he answered with a deadpan, “No, it ain’t kismet,” because Simón’s choice of family cosplay was still so awfully cliché.

Said picnic clothes were inspired by ‘ _The Sound of Music’_ film in which the governess Fraulein Maria sewed new clothes for the Von Trapps under her care by merely using the curtains in her room. This green and beige pattern resembled combat camouflage but only prettier.

That was what their children were wearing, although Bobby and Hank wholeheartedly begged for pants as opposed to shorts. Meanwhile, Emma and Betsy insisted that the hem of their skirts stay above the knees and snug around their waists, proud as they were of their blossoming figures. Only Alison didn’t care how they looked, as long as she could wear her favorite thigh-high white boots with fringes. She wore that damn pair with anything, even if it didn’t make any fashionable sense, much like for today.

“You can be Maria.” 

Snorting, Frank swiped to the next new story from the hologram screen across him. Neither of them has dressed the part yet, since it’s only eight in the morning, and he hasn’t even finished his bacon and eggs. Talking to the most insufferable spouse only slowed down breakfast.

“ _Right_. But only because you fancy yourself the more dashing man to play the role of the Captain, is that it? If anything, you should play Maria, based on the fact that you dallied with the idea of a clergyman’s life before all of this.”

  
”A respectable calling, mind you,” Simón laughed and placed down each set of the garments they’re supposed to wear to complement their children’s own. “But I’m afraid it wouldn’t have come to pass, seeing as a quiet life of prayer and solitude does not become a Napolitano heir.”

“Oh, god,” his husband chided as he chewed on the last few bites of his food. He swallowed just in time to add, “One of these days you’ll cease talking about yourself in pompous superlatives.”

“Why bother, when I have you as the example of modesty?”

“You fucking take that back,” Frank pointed his fork at the other man. “I’m supposed to be the diva in this marriage.”

“With me as your betrothed? Surely you lost your goddamn mind.”

They held each other’s gaze for one intense moment—neither flinching—except, of course, Simón eventually did, as he pushed the everything aside so he can attempt to sit on his husband’s lap. Frank didn’t give him that much space, knowing that if they get too physical then the rest of the trip would have been cancelled, much to the appalled chagrin of the older ones and the sad disappointment of the young’ins. Even as they both approach their fifties, they’re still considerably virile and don’t often bother getting it under control.

Alas, the children were present for the week. They can’t afford to be caught. Especially by Alison. Again. Twice now. Goddamn.

“Do you think they’ll like where we will take them later?” Frank allowed Simón to sit on his left knee for the time being, seeing as the other man barely placed his weight on there anyway, “I’m still unsure it wouldn’t come off too presumptuous of us, especially for our telepath girls. Not to mention that we’ve been having trouble with Emma lately. I swear that girl can freeze anyone cold with a single deadly look.”

“I don’t think so, Frankie,” his spouse answered with a slightly dismissive tone, “If anything, I think this would teach Emma to hone in and control her impulses every time she feels like giving in to them instead.”

“Betsy can at least understand her better than we could, unless of course she’s more inclined to let Em get away with things again. It happened a few times before.”

“What of Henry though?” Simón sliced some bacon so he can pop that quickly into his mouth. “He’s become too much of a recluse since he turned a teen. I don’t think it’s that healthy for a boy to stay cooped up with machines instead of making new friends.”

“You’re the one who insisted that we nurture his genius when it comes to inventions,” Frank countered. “And I think it’s healthier for Hank to devote his time and energy on things he does excel at as opposed to forcing him into social situations. The boy isn’t like either of us, or Bobby. And doesn’t that, again, provide a better contrast? Bobby already wants to take up the mantle as your heir. You do realize that, right?”

Simón went quiet next. He stayed on his husband’s lap for a second or two before he at last rose and folded his arms over his chest. With a rueful shake of his head, he remarked, “His heart is always in the right place, but I daresay Alison qualifies more for the job.”

“And she wants it just as much as her brother, I know…” Frank finished his coffee with one long gulp. Carrying the rest of his unfinished plate and utensils over to the sink next, he chimed, “They could always share the responsibilities. If we learned anything in the last thirty years is that Genosha always thrived better under the leadership of two.”

“Yes, one heir from our family,” Simón reminded gently, “And the other from the Eisenhardts. It was supposed to be Anya, but…” he trailed off as his eyes fell back towards the large glass doors where the children were gathered, “…she opted to Relinquish. Magnus hasn’t forgiven her yet for doing that, and it’ll take some time for the father and daughter to reconcile. I wish there was something I can do.”

Frank didn’t comment on that as he tidied up. Even though he accepted Simón wholeheartedly for all the roles he must play, he didn’t often verbally engage in the nuances of Genoshan politics, mainly because he was only an ordinary human who married into the arrangement. Mutants have been governing their own people outside the sphere of the ‘normies’ for three centuries, co-existing harmoniously with those who weren’t blessed with the gene. So for Frank, his input wouldn’t have held the same amount of weight as a Napolitano’s.

Eventually, however, he still returned to the other man’s side and gave his shoulder a consoling squeeze.

“Hey now, you’re not expected to fix everything and save everyone from their own mistakes, Atomic Clef,” he reassured with a gentle smile, “I know Magnus is your mentor, and you wanted to ease his transition to retirement including this stuff with his kid, but you know how he gets where it concerns family. He’ll resolve his own issues with Anya one day, so until then, your energies are better spent for our excursion today.”

He kissed Simón once on the lips and then conceded in a cheerier tone next, “You know what, _fine_. I’ll put on the Maria costume with some make-up and heels,” he ran a hand down his husband’s chest, humming. “You always did look better in a military man’s uniform.”

Simón grimaced, “Heels? Maria was a pious woman and did not—”

But Frank insisted, “Four-inch leopard-spotted stiletto boots or your Captain can be the mopey widower at the beginning of the film again. No buts, Signor Napolitano.” He kissed Simón again—deeply this time—to shut him up. It always worked.

The happily married couple eventually made it to the lake, presently rowing two boats with the children divided between them on board.

Much of the trees were still covered in mildew due to last week’s storm and chrysalis from the swarm of butterflies that unfurled yesterday. They grew close to a foot long around these parts, when the typical insect back in the mainland only grew half of that size. As a few of them fluttered by with delicate translucent wings, Hank watched them through the pair of silver-rimmed binoculars he wore on his face, the expensive titanium casing of which was bought using the money he saved in the last three years.

He tinkered with this latest mechanism of his for weeks on end before this family trip, and so the boy was proudly showcasing it now while he sat in the middle of the Katherines. The three were perched on Simón’s boat, once more buzzing in their innocent excitement as he explained to the sisters the things his new invention could do.

“Shall we sing a song together?” Simón interjected halfway across the lake. His husband snapped his head towards him from the other boat.

“If you make them sing ‘Favorite Things’ again, I swear to god!”

But Betsy was already leading with the first verse, followed closely by Bobby. Alison—who has the most versatile mezzo soprano and knew how to use it—provided harmonies for her siblings. Emma was an exceptional alto, however, and competed slightly in a different pitch which only added further nuance to the symphony. It was all Simón could do not to start gushing as he rowed in utter content, surrounded by all his favorite things in the world.

Frank may be rolling his eyes at the cheesiness he’s being subjected to right now, but both men knew they’ll always cherish moments like this when it comes to the children, especially since five of them have grown into remarkable teenagers. It’ll only be a matter of time before they venture out into the world and leave their nest less crowded, save for the two Katherines.

Back when they tied the knot twenty years ago, Simón implicitly expressed his desire to adopt children from the Mutant Registry.

The global registry in question monitors infants who possess the recessive gene of mutation but were then born to human parents who didn’t think themselves capable of raising a child with powers. Even though the homo sapiens race has long come to terms that the next evolutionary leap are indeed the mutants, a small percentage of the average ‘normie’ couple still felt largely unequipped to attend to the needs of a mutant child, hence why a lot of these kids were registered. This way, they will be given a fair chance to be adopted by adult mutants who are more prepared to take on the obligation of child care—most especially by those who cannot conceive themselves, such as married gay men or unfertile women.

Sixty-percent of the normies who had been blessed with mutant children still raised them regardless, and so special schools for the Gifted—led by the Napolitano Foundation—were built across the United States specifically to aid these families.

As for those who are a part of the Registry program, a very discerning screening process always takes place before an adoption can be possible, mostly for the safety and comfort of the children. Being rejected early on by their biological human parents meant they might still feel unwanted and unloved, so the social workers of the Registry go to lengths to ensure that the new parents with their child are compatible. Hundreds of social workers in North America alone are assigned to twelve foster families each, in which they’d monitor them until the child becomes of age at eighteen.

“You’re both up to something, aren’t you?” Alison sat facing Frank on his boat with the two younger girls Emma and Betsy and also Bobby. She narrowed her eyes in suspicious curiosity not on the father she was on board with, but rather towards the other near them.

When she whipped her head to his direction, her strawberry blonde hair billowed due to the strong winds, reminding Simón that he has the same shade himself underneath the ink-black dye he used regularly. The girl remarked next, “I told you I don’t like surprises a long time ago. So at least give me a preview on what to expect.”

“Always so inquisitive, sugar cakes,” Simón held his eldest daughter’s stare even as he maneuvered the boat to turn sideways. He then belted out a high note, transforming the sound instantly into glittering waves which descended from the oars and rippled through the currents of water underneath. They pulled both boats to a single destination so that Frank stopped rowing to allow his husband’s hyper-sense to complete the rest of their journey eastbound.

Alison cracked a small smile, muttering, “What a show-off,” just before she hummed the same note and caused tiny golden lights to dance around them, which then drew a few more butterflies near them.

And Frank laughed, mainly because she spoke that in self-aware irony. Even though none of their children is biologically related to either man, many of their traits reflected Simón and Frank, whether subtle or more heavy-handed.

It was Kitty who gingerly stood next at the butt end of the boat minutes later. She currently wore her brother’s binoculars as she pointed ahead, “Wait, are we going into that cave? The readings on the scope are telling me there are things inside, daddies!”

“Really?” Hank peered over Kitty’s shoulder as he whipped out his regular glasses to push them on the bridge of his nose. “But I thought the caves have been emptied out during the last Minerals Expedition a decade ago? I’ve read it in the Paragon Archive. And just thirty miles westbound are the High Seas, which I originally thought was where we’re going. I was looking forward to surf.”

“No, you weren’t,” Bobby countered. “And for a genius, you sure are dense. If we were supposed to go surfing, why would we even bother sleeping in the cabin? We also have a beach house west from here.”

“I don’t know,” Hank deflated within seconds at his older brother’s measly criticism. “I supposed I wasn’t thinking again before I spoke.”

“You do that a lot,” Bobby pointed out. “Mind your tongue then.”

"Alright, boys,” Frank interrupted before another awkward exchange could escalate between his sons, adding, “Both your sisters are right. We are going inside that cave because we do have a surprise.”

Kate, who hasn’t said anything since this morning, perked up noticeably and tugged at the hem of Simón’s crisp blue-gray uniform. “What’s in there, Daddy?”

“Something for everyone, lemon drop,” was all the man revealed.

The boats entered the gaping darkness. It was a so quiet inside that not even rushing water can be heard. Only Alison’s golden lights illuminated their sight as an eerie pause passed through the children. They looked on worriedly at one another from across the boats. Even the two elder ones looked unsure.

It was Emma who eventually eased the tension with a perfectly timed retort: “If you ever thought about naming this little surprise of yours the ‘Cave of Wonders’, I’m going to knock out everyone unconscious and erase memories. Don’t test me, father dears.”

Betsy laughed, “I think you just gave them that idea and they’ll run with it now, sis.” As if to make a point, she nodded at Simón who definitely looked as if he was considering the suggestion, even with the dim lighting.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, my cotton candy bears,” Said father countered soon enough. The sweets-based pet names had been his typical expression of paternal affection over the years, but that phrase was just pushing it. There was violence now in Emma’s icy-blue-eyes.

Unfazed, the man went on, “The title I chose, obviously, is derived from a well-known quote I’ve always lived by as hero to all, which would be—” A pause. “…‘Fortune Favors the Cave’.”

Bobby imitated the sound of a snare drum to top off that winning punchline, and Hank snorted a laugh through his nose.

Meanwhile, Emma crossed her arms and legs as she glared at Simón. Telepathically, she communicated, [I hate everything about you]

Simón snickered and walked further to the other end of the boat, “We’re almost near the harbor, so please attend to your younger siblings while you climb out, alright? Your dads will be the last to get off so we can hold the boats steady. Frank?”

“Aye, aye, captain!”

“Ewww,” Betsy made a face as she flinched away, “Dad, don’t think things like that so loudly when me and Em are right here!”

“What did I do now?” Frank tried to sound innocent, but the flush on his cheeks proved otherwise. Even Simón has to look away so as not to encourage the salacious ramblings of his own mind just after Frank called him ‘captain’ with that tone of voice. Their daughters can tap into private thoughts by accident—the downside of living with teen telepaths who can be a tad invasive.

It took a few minutes for everyone to gather safely on the harbor. The planks were surprisingly sturdier than the children might have expected especially since the harbor was found inside a spooky, barely lit cave. As they forged ahead, Frank noticed that Hank lingered behind to inspect the planks, and the boy soon figured out that the wooden appearance was mere coating. Underneath was steel and concrete. He looked up to give his father an inquiring look, but Frank merely raised a finger to his lips, smirking.

“Something’s wrong,” Emma announced as she slowed down. She usually strutted anywhere she went like she was God’s best gift to the world, even at just the tender age of fourteen. So the sudden caution in her gait could only mean trouble. “I think there are psychic dampeners. I can hardly use my telepathy as a sensor.”

Simón approached to place a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, right before he pushed her gently to keep walking. “There’s a kind of thrill in not knowing everything before the time is right, ensaïmada.”

She crossed her arms again. “What the hell did you just call me?”

“It’s some type of Spanish puff pastry, I think,” Betsy answered for her.

Just as the blonde telepath opened her mouth to no doubt complain about the incorrigible nicknames, the golden lights from Alison dispersed once the family entered through a steeper route until they’re forced to stand close to one another and hold hands because of the narrow path. The Katherines were getting tense, so Bobby stopped midway to carry Kate. Said little girl draped her arms around her older brother’s shoulder. She searched for either of her father’s face in the deepening dark.

“You know what?” Alison was already ahead of the pack as she placed her hands on her waist and declared this next, “Fuck this!”

The eldest then opened her throat to sing a verse from a composition she composed. Each note echoed with a rich intensity across the rows of stalactites, bouncing from one pointy end to the next like they were suddenly transformed as her instruments. With the deftness and grace of a seasoned musician, she plucked the same notes in the air until they exploded into colorful lights that dominated the rest of the cavern. Confidently, she trekked across the ground some more, keeping her pace moderate so that her siblings could catch up.

But no sooner when they took a sharp turn as soon as the path curved to the left side that Simón at last snapped his fingers.

A higher ceiling decorated in dozens upon dozens of stalactites infused together lit up all at once, bathing the cave in white luminescence that soon revealed where they’re all standing on.

“Oh my god!” Kitty exclaimed. In her desperation earlier, the twelve-year old almost wanted to phase into the cave walls, but Frank sensed her agitation so he hugged her from behind to settle her nerves. Said girl pulled away from her father now so that she can twirl around and laugh, asking, “Where are we right now, daddies? It’s so gorgeous!”

What the children were standing on at present was an Olympic-sized ice rink at the heart of the cave itself. Bobby carefully put down Kate so he could also join Kitty in admiring the rest of this ice paradise. His feet slid across what was so intimately familiar to him, and he couldn’t help the frost that shot out instantly from his left hand. The frigid condensation of snow easily formed into a twelve foot snowman. It froze into a rock-solid state within seconds.

Giggling, Hank ran towards the frosty statue in a very enthused attempt to climb it. His body involuntarily responded to the change in temperature by coating itself in blue fur. He kicked off his shoes next, just in time as his feet transformed into a prehensile pair.

This enabled the boy to suspend himself as one foot grasped on a nearby stalactite and swung with another towards a few more until he landed atop the snowman’s head.

With their previous small brotherly squabble from before forgotten, Bobby created more snowmen for the younger boy to skip on. Kitty followed suit beneath by phasing into each snowman and popping out of the head so she can try and catch her big brother as he landed on one. Once or twice she was able to grab his ankle, but Hank merely swung her to slam onto the next snowman. She would phase just in time so that she could cushion the impact.

“This is so awesome, dads!” Hank said while he was on all fours across the ice rink, being chased by Kitty. He happened to confiscate the binoculars from said sister just now, much to the girl’s mild dismay. “Fortune Favors the Cave indeed!”

“We are not calling it that!” Emma insisted. She curled her hands into fists and closed her eyes. In no time, she shape-shifted into an organic diamond form underneath her picnic clothes which she then peeled off and tossed towards Frank. Waving at Betsy, she called out, “Spar with me, sis! Let’s show these boys how to play!”

Frank hastily picked up the clothes but chided his daughter, “How many times do I have to tell you to fold your own clothes, young lady?”

But she didn’t heed the man because Betsy was already coming at her with a pulsating violet blade, charged with psychic energy. She wielded it with the biggest smile on her face and struck the blonde several times in her diamond-encrusted body. The sonorous twang of each strike is almost melodious, but it barely scratched Emma. Still, Betsy never missed. She enjoyed the exercise a lot anyway, especially since she can hit a moving target as much as she could, which happened to be her indestructible dear sister.

While the rest of her siblings played, Alison looked up at the high ceiling where the chandelier-like stalactites hung. The intense concentration in those hazel eyes revealed she wanted to do something to them using her powers. Her mutation is quite similar to Simón’s own, with only the barest distinctions. It was inevitable then that she gained his favor early on which fostered a healthy enough sibling rivalry between herself and Bobby when it came to being named heir in the future.

Simón approached his eldest now. He waited for her to notice him first before he said, “Do you want me to do the honors or shall you?”

He meant the electrically charged stalactites. Both father and daughter could feed from that energy source for a whole month, but at the moment, Alison had other plans.

Still, a thoughtful look crossed her features as she considered it. Afterwards she shook her head, “No, I can manage. But first you have to tell me what all of this is for. It can’t be just another playroom. We have enough of those already. Let it not be said you and other dad never gave us a fulfilling childhood, but…” she looked to the side. “We’re not going to stay children forever.”

It didn’t surprise Simón that she was more learned than the average nineteen-year old, with or without mutation, especially now that her Emancipation has been finalized according to Genoshan civil laws.

The funny thing about being a parent, however, is that no matter how much your children can outgrow you to the point that they won’t need you for anything anymore, a father could not cease searching for the little girl who depended on him in the woman she grew into, even if only as glimmers of hope.

And so he tucked a hand under Alison’s chin to make her look at him—if not see him in the most humbling light. “I will tell you and your brothers and sisters later. In the meantime, you should join them right now, for old times’ sake, my dazzling pop tart.”

“Oh, daddy,” she wrapped one arm over his shoulder as she buried her face on the other, “Of all the things I’ll miss about you, the fucking confectionary nicknames won’t be one of them.”

She pulled away with a cheeky smirk just before she raised her arms in the air and turned those same stalactites into neon-colored prisms of pink, blue, and green. Startling waves of energy cascaded, and they flash and dance across the ice rink. They would also solidify as soon as they’re touched, which her siblings knew. And so Kitty grabbed one shimmering loop of energy and used it as a hula hoop.

“You goddamn show-off,” her father rolled his eyes at Alison.

“Says the king of all show-offs,” she retorted.

Frank was there on the wings already with little Kate grasping on his hand. The two men exchanged daughters then, with Frank leading Alison to where the rest of her siblings made merry whilst Simón lifted Kate under her arms to help her sit atop a thick ledge on a corner.

The pair of them stayed quiet and content for a few moments, watching Hank and Kitty take turns eluding Bobby on the ice rink with their fluid movements. But soon enough the youngest child piped up.

“Daddy, why didn’t you adopt another mutant instead of me?”

Simón wasn’t expecting that kind of question to come from Kate just yet, not in her seven years of age. He could only blink for a few seconds. This gave the girl enough time to add:

“I mean, were you just trying to be kind? Because my own mommy and daddy died and you felt sorry for me?”

He only stared in sad silence. She was far too young to know the rest of the disheartening details that surrounded the deaths of the very two people who loved her very much in the past. Years from now—when she at least reached Kitty’s age—he and Frank would fill her in with answers to questions she might now know she wants to ask.

“Other daddy and I…” he measured his next words as he looked in earnest at the little girl, “…we weren’t planning on adopting anymore after your big sister Kitty. That’s the truth, yes.”

“So why did you pick me?” Kate watched the man, devoid of any discernible expression save for mild curiosity only an innocent child exuded.

“Because,” And Simón tucked the strands of ginger hair that fell on the side of her cheek, “When I first saw you, I fell in love, baby. I knew you were going to be—that you were supposed to be my daughter too.”

“I don’t get it,” she bit on her bottom lip, “I’m just a human girl. I’m not special like them…”

And she looked at her siblings who are still demonstrating their fierce powers while Frank was caught in the middle of it. He wore the gray frock and blue dress with a billowing skirt reminscient of what Fraulein Maria had on in the film before she met the Von Trapp children. Strutting around with leopard-printed high-heeled boots, he barked a few reminders to make sure everyone was doing it safely.

Emma skated past her father and robbed him of the pretty yellow straw hat on his head. Frank went “Oh, that is it, young lady!”

Simón chuckled right before he got serious again as he answered Kate:

“Just because you don’t have mutant abilities like your brothers and sisters doesn’t make you any less special. I mean, look at other daddy.”

They both watched Frank frantically swoop a laughing Betsy and carry her all the way to the other side while Bobby and Hank cheered. Meanwhile, Emma was fuming as she ran after them. Even though her father was the one on heels, she can’t even catch up.

Kate flashed a smile, “He’s amazing, isn’t he?”

“He sure is, buttercup.”

“So,” the girl’s attention returned to the father she was currently sitting with, “You still love other daddy even if he’s like me? Ordinary?”

Overcome by strong feelings a proud man of his prestige would often push aside, Simón in that moment allowed them to wash over him. He then pulled Kate to sit on his lap as his arms linked around her smaller form. She blinked, not understanding what was happening.

“Cherry pie,” he spoke in a slightly muddled tone, “There is nothing ordinary about how much I love you and other daddy.”

“Really?” Kate’s face flushed into a happy pink, as the freckles scattered on her nose and cheeks stood out even more.

“Really-really.”

Satisfied with that answer, Kate swung her legs back and forth as she sat on her father’s lap. Her dainty hands came up on his arms still wrapped around her so that she could squeeze them.

It was as if to reassure the man that she also understood the deeper meaning behind his words. Indeed, Kate was special to Simón as this moment between them had been.

* * *

**ﾒ**

**[@ATOMICCLEF](https://twitter.com/atomicclef) **

**ﾒ**

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

**ﾒ**

Ｓｉｍóｎ Ｎａｐｏｌｉｔａｎｏ

**ﾒ**

* * *

##  **༻✧**

_I was pummeled in this house of pain_

_But I survived the wars I waged_

_And I've screamed with all the spit_

_That's on this stage_

_"This open heart is back tomorrow"_

**MAGNANIMOUSRAGE**

He has slept a dreamless sleep in the last three decades since Auschwitz, but tonight, within the twilit domes of his old home, he dreams yet again of family. They weren’t all good dreams, but he clung to them just the same, like a thirsty man needing the respite of any drink even from a glass of stale beer.

Carrion Cove had been under the stewardship of the Eisenhardts in the last six decades. It was nothing but a hollow sanctuary now, however, where only Magnus dwelt. His only daughter left Genoshan shores because she wanted to become a part of a society that isn’t defined by their gifts and uniqueness, unlike the mutantkind she belonged to.

It’s been six years since, and Magnus still hasn’t spoken to her.

If the man ever noticed her absence, he therefore learned to fill it with the duties of his leadership. He’s semi-active now at seventy-two years of age, although he couldn’t truly imagine himself ever going for a full retirement. That’s not to say he doesn’t trust his fellow ombudsman who still has two more decades before he could also retire.

All that Magnus has ever known is his duty and service for the Genoshan Republic. There’s no other title he held more dearly.

He has just woken up from a vivid dream about his cousins when he received a call from his old friend who sought counsel regarding a tourist who just arrived at Genosha’s main city. Situated two hundred miles away was said city of Hammer Bay, where co-steward Simón Napolitano lived with his husband Frank and the seven children.

It took Magnus ten minutes to get ready. He garbed himself in maroon and gray, the colors of the House of M, though he left behind the pins and medals that would have suited a more formal occasion whilst he stood in front of his a full-length mirror to button up the sleeves. The old man paused for a bit on the inner side of his left upper forearm where the numbers stand out like scar tissue; a reminder of a time when he’d been touched by evil, amongst millions of others, that inevitably made the world a better place. He had the same six numbers sewn into the flags of the House of M, its silver threads definitive against the maroon and gray.

Transportation takes less than fifteen minutes. He used the tube like everyone else because this was the land of true democracy. In most human-populated areas around the world, their leaders are always heavily guarded by armed men and women. It was an understandable precaution, something Genoshan politicians do not practice because Magnus has the distinct advantage of immunity to the obvious metal-based mechanism in weapons. If they ever want him dead, they would have to be extremely resourceful and clever, as well as resigned to the consequences in the aftermath.

None in the hallways of the tube paid Magnus mind as he trudged through the crowds of mutants who are more likely preoccupied thinking about their jobs and families so they couldn’t waste time gawking at an ombudsman in their midst. Several have acknowledged him with a courteous nod or smile which he returned. That was the extent of the interaction between himself and the public.

They may respect him as the representative they voted but they have never been required to go through extra lengths to please or exalt him. It’s been that way for both mutant and human regimes post-Holocaust. The warmonger Hitler was truly the last face of tyrannical leadership that served as a cautionary tale the rest of the world heeded. No longer do they place world leaders in an untouchable pedestal; everyone is scrutinized, taxed, and held accountable—especially those who are in high-income households.

As soon as they closed the gaps between economical divide, everyone pretty much realized that capitalism is the main enemy of the world economy. And so a new age came forth where the collective, the individual, and the exceptional found common ground so that harmony was achieved and maintained. The Mutant Initiative spearheaded by Magnus during the sixties helped abolish the prejudice against their kind, especially since he was also a Jewish survivor who vocalized his aspersions against the Nazis until anyone who idealized such hateful rhetoric were captured and reformed.

Magnus has accomplished a lot, though he had the modest gait of a man who’s unburdened by such distinctions. He walked to the capitol without airs, and all who knew him may have looked his way but did not despair. This was not the age of gods and monsters anymore.

“Who is our guest, Simón?” his eyes considerably brightened at the sight of a young person in what he assumed was a uniform. The blue was such a pretty shade against the apron over it.

Whoever it was, they stood in quiet confidence reflected back behind big brown eyes. There’s also coyness in how they smiled at him.

Simón was sitting in a brown high back Chesterfield armchair. It was an antique, much like the rest of this main chamber where they’ve waited for the older man. He didn’t answer Magnus at first, which the guest in question took as their cue to step forward.

“I’m Clara Oswald, if it pleases you…?” Aside from the crisp accent, the tone indicated they were inquiring of the correct address of his sake. But it only made Magnus shake his head as he smiled in pleasant dismissal.

“Magnus will do just fine, Clara. Or do you prefer ‘Oswald’? I know the English have still retained most of their formal constructs even in this new century. Whatever’s more comfortable for you,” and he took a seat next to his fellow ombudsman in another matching armchair. “May I ask for your pronouns as well? I identify as a He.”

“We can do away with formalities then,” Clara beamed as they sat back down. It was a swivelling clear-glass chair they picked, which was modern-styled furniture that didn’t belong among the rest. Apparently—based on first impression alone—neither did their countenance. “And I suppose I’m fine being identified as a She primarily, but They is perfectly acceptable as well.”

Said woman glanced at Simón now, retorting, “I hope I was right to identify you earlier as a man as you correctly presumed my own gender.”

But Simón waved a hand, “Unlike Magnus who makes it to a point to ask, I always default back to the binary unless the other party would counter. Only then would I correct myself. And since you didn’t raise complaints, I went on with the female identification.”

The older man observed this exchange at first. His co-steward and friend was one of the most tactful men he’s ever worked alongside with, but he was not concerned with too much political correctness. He never misgenders anyone out of malice—after all, if Malice of Misgender guarantees a ticket and fine to pay, and it was Simón who passed that law twenty years ago.

“It’s not a problem,” Clara showed her dimples as she smiled. “But I felt the need to clarify either way. I will be careful next time during the rest of my stay here in New Genosha. That is, if I’m allowed.”

Magnus could see shrewdness in her eyes and in the way she behaved. It endeared her instantly; anything that reminded him of the only daughter he raised seemed to do that these days.

“Yes, well, Clara arrived here to Hammer Bay with a traveling diner less than two hours ago, but she didn’t have the proper permits,” Simón explained next, “She’s unfamiliar with our registration process and other customs, it seems.”

“Unfamiliar but always ready to learn,” Clara piped up again, always with the cheery tone, “I’ve been doing lots of long-distance travel through the cosmos for a very long time now, mind you.”

Magnus curtailed his expression as he addressed the woman, “You are not of this galaxy then.” He lifted a hand to summon a holographic menu so he can browse through the details of Clara Oswald’s temporary detainment, including what was found in her diner. The documented data appeared on the very palm of his hand and magnified three-dimensionally.

“The transportation in her possession, as noted here, was deemed to possess unique anomalies,” Simón perched a hand under his chin as he read along the information Magnus broadcasted. “Under the laws of this world, you are obliged to disclose further details of this machinery. Genosha operates in absolute transparency. Leaders and the Republic alike are encouraged to share pertinent information that would either help or harm the community.”

“Sorry,” Clara interjected with a curious note in her tone, “Did you say ‘absolute transparency’ for everyone? So does that mean no one is allowed privacy?”

“Nothing as ominous as that,” The older man breathed through his nose in a patient sigh. “What Genosha wants is exactly what the rest of the world continues to work hard for since the Holocaust.”

“Which is?” The Englishwoman presented some difficulty to read. There was something about the way she phrased seemingly innocuous questions that reminded Magnus not so much of a journalist’s but rather that of a schoolteacher who’d like to hear a student’s point of view regardless of the content. If he’d been three decades younger, Magnus might have found it in intimidating.

“To openly communicate,” He replied earnestly, “To keep discourses civil, where every opinion is heard. Freedom of speech is not the end-all of discussions anymore. It’s having the conscientious ability to formulate a well-informed opinion. And how can an average citizen have one if they don’t know how the world works, especially where social change and politics are concerned? Hence the need for transparency. It is the building block of democracy.”

Simón added, “No one can plead ignorance if knowledge is always made available, and within children’s reach especially. Here in Genosha and some human regimes who uphold the same decree, we want to educate our young so they know exactly how to participate in discourses that shape our society, even years leading to their Emancipation.”

“Emancipation? Define that, please.”

“Every child who reached adulthood at eighteen is free to migrate out of Genosha, if they wish, or run for office as an independent party. However, the more advisable route is to undergo evaluation if they so wish to become eligible to work under the House of S or M.”

Simón always sounded just a bit excited to enlighten any newcomer to their shores about their civilization. It’s something he’s very proud of after all. Napolitanos are known for their performer personalities whilst the Eisenhardts are content to reinforce things from the background.

Clara paused for several seconds, obviously considering some things without revealing her own cards at the table. It went against the transparency both men believe in, but she’ll receive leniency simply because she was a foreigner not just of this world but the galaxy itself.

“I assume House of S and M are your respective titles as… Simón mentioned earlier he’s an ‘ombudsman’? And so are you.”

“Yes,” said man remarked before addressing Magnus, “I gave Clara a rudimentary run of how things work around here the minute I realized she was a time traveler. The anomalies we found in her ship are because such technology is not within the scope of science, not even in the most theoretical sense. That innovation, I’m afraid is of the Gallifreyan variety. That’s what Clara told me concerning origin.”

Magnus became solemn. He encountered that history of that alien race long ago. When he looked back at Clara, he decisively squared his shoulders, inquiring, “You are a Time Lord then? Or is ‘lady’? I’m not familiar with your norms so I apologize if I misgendered.”

The Englishwoman chuckled, “Actually, the ‘lord’ and ‘lady’ on the titles are of—shall we say—arrogant design?” There’s a twinkle in her eyes now. “The terms only existed to placate societies who had not gone past the binary concept. Time ‘lords’ and ‘ladies’ themselves have the genetic default of gender fluidity in which they can—depending on their regeneration—be assigned to one gender or another. But to answer your question, no, I am not a native of Gallifrey myself. I only acquired the TARDIS in my association with a Time Lord.”

There was a tea set in the middle the entire time, but Clara was the only one who remembered so she poured herself a translucent cup—similar to glass yet not quite—while the conversation stalled.

It was also at this point when Magnus picked up some unease in her tone. Before he can discern which part of her statements from earlier caused it, she squashed that feeling in no time as she added, “I am an Earthling, like you two sirs, born and raised in Blackpool, UK of another Earth. I just checked my own records…” and she glanced at what looked like a wristwatch on her right arm, “…this is Earth-80, correct?”

“Yes,” Magnus moved on to the more pressing item on the docket, with his thumb gliding. The motion allowed him to scroll across the hologram before expanding it so all three of them can see.

“I’m sorry to interrupt but our medical examination revealed that you…well, you are already _deceased_ , Miss Clara Oswald. No pulse yet brain activity is fully functional.”

The entire thing was beyond odd. It made the older man look at her now with some wariness underneath professional courtesy.

Simón shifted on his own armchair, the leather squeaking slightly due to his weight. He said, “I’m afraid that’s the one thing about her personal history she didn’t want to be transparent about, Magnus.”

“All you really need to know,” Clara interjected, “is that I’m quantum-locked. It means that though I’m technically dead from the timeline I perished in, I’m able to move in this stasis and interact with the physical reality anyway.”

“Yes, and when I demanded a more satisfying answer than that—

“I told him ‘wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey’,” and the woman took a long audible sip of her tea. Magnus had to smile. It was hard to see her as untrustworthy when she’s so charming in an understated way.

“Would you excuse us, Clara?” Simón gestured for the door leading to an interconnected lounge. “Kate’s right outside. Do you mind waiting for her while me and my compatriot discuss?”

Once the men were alone, Magnus looked at his fellow ombudsman next, “And I take it you can’t decide whether or not she should stay, and in what duration we can allow her to after lifting her detainment?”

“No, it has nothing to do with that,” Simón almost deflated into his armchair. That only happened whenever he spoke to the older man not as a work associate but as the former student he mentored and helped groom per late Cesare Napolitano’s instructions.

“You do look troubled,” Magnus leaned on his armrest, “Have your sleep cycles been disrupted again? You told me Sef was helping with that beyond the prescription you should still be taking.”

“My therapist is very anti-pharma, so she had taken me out from it, actually,” Simón clarified as he met the man’s eyes. “I’ve been sleeping better than in the last five years, so my health has definitely improved because of it.”

The older man agreed. Simón used to have a leaner and meaner look back in his late thirties to early forties, but his skin at least has more color now even if there’s also noticeable plumpness. He’s definitely older in appearance, no matter how photogenic he still remained in the holographic posters spread across Genosha.

“Then what seems to be the problem?”

“I’ve been having these particular dreams. They feel almost prophetic.”

Reflexively, Magnus’s gaze fell to the side. He himself have been visited by stray memories appearing from the depths of his subconscious lately—of cousins in open mass graves, and the stench of charred remains of people he didn’t even know.

But he willed himself to listen to his friend because this wasn’t about his own nocturnal struggles. “Tell me about them.”

“Believe it or not, the diner Clara owns, the time machine—” Simón said in a hushed tone, “In my dreams, it appeared while I had collapsed face fist on the dusty ground in some distant planet. And I felt myself… _dying_ , Magnus. I knew I was going to die, and that’s when I saw that diner, like some mirage in a desert.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Magnus reached to give the younger man’s hand a squeeze. To his surprise, Simón withdrew.

“No, listen, listen to me—” But the man cut himself off instantly with a horrified expression, as if he’s now realizing his mistake for opening up about this.

But before he could even think about shutting down, Magnus warned him, “Transparency, my boy. Secrets only breed discord and distrust.”

Simón Napolitano was raised better than to cower from anything, so after he trembled and told Magnus what happened next in his recurring dream, the older man had to believe him.

The belief was marred with understandable skepticism, however.

They decided Clara Oswald could stay for two months at least and even open her diner to Genoshan customers. She’s assigned to take additional staff, which would be Simón’s daughters Emma and Betsy.

“I would like for you to meet my girls,” Simón explained as he walked Clara out of the capitol’s premises after the registration had been finalized. “They could use a summer job and interact more with the locals. Hope that wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“Teenagers are my area of expertise,” was all the time-traveling waitress said. The wording was cryptic, but the warmth infused in her tone was reassuring nonetheless.

Kate bounced between the adults as she unwrapped a lollipop. She looked excited to have made a new friend, and one who can cook and bake as well as her other dad Frank.

She glanced at the father on her left side for now, and it made her smile dim as soon as she recognized the look in her old man’s eyes. Something was not entirely friendly about this arrangement he struck with the waitress and her diner, and even though she likes Clara, Kate trusted her father more to do what must be done.

Meanwhile, Magnus watched them from the highest flight of the ivory steps where the trio walked away from. He had his hands behind his back in a posture of pleasant indifference. It undermined the disconcerting questions that have begun to brew in his mind.

It was only after Clara’s infamous traveling diner materialized in the middle of the commercial area that the older man took his leave. This time it wasn’t through the tube anymore; he traveled more inconspicuously instead through the underground tunnels that were decommissioned since the final civil uprising in the eighties.

In the permeating darkness, only his steps echoed, matched by his steady breathing. The last steel contraptions trapped underground hissed and turned to Magnus as he touched them with the range of his metalokinesis. They built below his person into retractable beams, so that he didn’t have to dirty his boots with the grime.

It took him almost a full hour before he made it.

Simón’s words swirled in his mind.

_“I knew I was dying. And that’s when the diner appeared. I hauled myself towards it, even if I had to literally crawl on all fours. But before I can push the door open, I saw her, Magnus.”_

Magnus halted, as the beams underneath his feet ceased moving as well. They merely held him aloft six feet above the dirt.

“ _I saw Anya.”_

When the man raised a gloved hand, the large iron doors squealed like they were in pain. The route ahead led to a cavern once he got past the barrier. Illumination automatically turned on from a dozen ice chandeliers that were fuelled through conversion energy—it was the genetic signature of two mutants who possessed such ability. The fact that thermal energy had been stored within frozen containers like those is quite the thermodynamic miracle.

But Magnus was already familiar with them that he was no longer in awe. Instead he stepped out of the beams and walked further into the cavern. He stopped only until he saw Hank tinkering with his tools.

_“She didn’t feel right to me in that moment. And that made me so scared, because I grew up with Anya. She was like a sister as much as you are my second father. Magnus, I don’t know how to put this more delicately but…”_

“Uncle Mags?” Hank disengaged from his current project in favor of looking at Magnus through his goggles. The boy cleared his throat next and asked, “Is—Is something the matter? I don’t believe we have an outstanding appointment for this month, so what brings you here?”

Hank was just a year shy away from Emancipation though he’s already been assigned as a Head Engineer, considering his genius. At the moment he’s also hanging upside-down by his furry blue paws. A blush spread across his cheeks before he made himself more presentable (read: upright) to his significantly older colleague.

“It’s okay, dear,” Magnus smiled even if he wasn’t feeling the most cheerful. “Your father and I were just in the capitol, and I came here because there’s something we need for you to help us with.”

“Sure thing!” Hank made a show of clearing away his work space in that decidedly nervous way he often carried himself with. Magnus’s smile became tender; they all wish Henry to flourish and meet his fullest potentials, but his social awkwardness can often put off those who will never see past that and recognize his brilliance.

“Can I interest you with a beverage?”

“Actually, I’d rather we forego with such trifles and talk about this new development in Hammer Bay,” Magnus found a stool to sit on. The travel underground, though assisted by the steel beams, still took some toll. He’s not a sprightly young man anymore after all.

“Of course. What can I do?”

And the old man had Henry examine the docket which disclosed details about Clara Oswald and the time machine she borrowed from the extinct race of the Gallifreyans. The teenager was clearly intrigued; he himself expressed ambition where space travel is concerned, particularly the ships that can be built. Magnus could even recall that he showed a prototype of his design three months ago.

“I can do a preliminary investigation about the mechanisms involved that had allowed this machine to travel through time,” Hank sounded skeptical, which was understandable since he has yet to encounter this traveling diner. “Will this Clara Oswald volunteer their ship for closer inspection? You said that my father granted them permit to open the diner in the main city. Did he specify parameters?”

Magnus said nothing for a while. His thoughts kept turning back and forth between the situation at hand and the daughter he lost touch with. Eventually, he responded, “I met with Miss Oswald. We haven’t specified the investigation we want to launch on her time machine. But Simón will no doubt inform her soon. In the meantime, can you find more about Gallifrey but outside of the texts concerning the Time War against the Daleks?”

“You mean material concerning more about their innovations especially in the field of trans-dimensional engineering?”

The term made both their lips quirk up in amusement. The theory of trans-dimensional engineering was still considered ‘mythic’ here on their side of the galaxy, but since the Genoshans consider themselves very high-minded and progressive, they will never dismiss even the most absurd-sounding theories. After all, the mutant gene itself sounded like witchcraft until science backed it up. It’s all about keeping an open mind while doing the necessary research required.

Hank removed his goggles for a moment, revealing blue eyes that on occasion still looked like they belong to a younger boy and not someone who’s almost an adult. Even though he wore a short-sleeved beige shirt, he still made it to a point to put on a yellow tie, which wasn’t even a clip-on. And he worked alone, so it wasn’t as if anyone would care.

“Do you think Clara Oswald is friendly? Or is she somewhat sketchy?” the boy asked next as he feigned arranging some test tubes.

“She’s incredibly clever and amicable,” Magnus replied. “Like I said, we will just have to wait for your father’s further instruction once he earned her trust. I simply want to inform you about it because we consider you one of our best scientists, Hank, and since you’re also family we expect only the utmost discretion.”

The boy nodded. He looked as nervous as ever but also determined to do his part. “Alright, Uncle Mags, I understand. Um…” he looked behind the older man, “I take it you’ll use the tunnels for the rest of your way back to Carrion Cove?”

“I might as well,” And Magnus stood to take his leave but not before he inquired, “How is Robert? His next tour is next week. Have you been to see him before then?”

Hank frowned. “I actually had a conference with him last night. Bobby seems fine, definitely more chipper, all things considered. You know how he is and how much the trips to the Atlantic mean.”

“I think it would mean a lot too if you showed up before he left. Your brother will be gone for the next two months after all.”

“Uncle Mags…” the boy rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We’re okay. I don’t know why everyone except the two of us seems to make a big deal over the fact that we argue and often don’t want to speak to each other afterwards.” He looked back at the older man, annoyance apparent on his face. “Not every pair of siblings gets along the way Emma and Betsy do. We’re just…two very different people, is all. But I know he’s family. We both do.”

With a patient smile, Magnus only retorted, “I just don’t want the rift between you to worsen. Arguments could escalate, my dear boy. And before you know it, the other person who used to be family becomes…almost a stranger.”

To his credit, the boy was quick to sense that the old man was drawing from recent experience, something Hank was privy of given how close he was to the issue himself. Magnus also knew that he and his ‘Aunt Anya’ still have conferences every now and then, mostly about overlapping interests like aeronautical engineering and etymology.

Hank crossed his arms and gave a stiff nod, “You’re right. Thanks for looking out after us. Um, I need to tell you, though that, uh, the cavern needs a little maintenance these days, so you should mind yourself, Uncle Mags. Faulty electric wires and all that.”

But Magnus just laughed. “I will be mindful, yes. And I hope you find time to fix the wiring then. I know it’s too menial of a task, but it could be good to take a break from your more consuming tasks here.”

“Yeah, alright,” the boy beamed shyly. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

It was just after lunch time when Magnus reached his empty home. He didn’t bother disrobing himself of the colors of his legacy and simply sat in the middle of the arched steps that formed a spiral staircase. It’s a colossal metalwork that embodied the family name and his mutation all at once. Most people often found the staircase intimidating to climb on or descend from, especially since it looked precarious in certain angles and could mess with the average depth perception due to its reflective surface.

But the staircase represented what was always true when it came to the old man’s history and relationship with power.

There’s always unease when someone attempts to handle the hardness in steel and iron for the first time. Welders and blacksmiths temper it with tools and fire, and although Magnus was neither, he could command such hard materials to bend to his will—even strip down the components found in weapons like guns and bombs.

At the core of this immense power was his control of magnetism. He’d been told he was the master of it, but Magnus wasn’t conceited to claim such a pompous title.

The old man gave himself a few more minutes of quiet contemplation before he made up his mind next and summoned a conference hologram to appear at the tip of his fingers. He may not have spoken to Anya in six years, but he’s kept a log of her extension number. It wasn’t as if he was likely to forget—they were the very numbers that were inked to her great grandmother’s forearm, Magnus’s mother. Anya had it customized after she moved out of Genosha, as a tribute to the woman she’s never met yet admired in memory just the same.

He doesn’t know what to say to his daughter anymore, not after communication between them had become stale. It wasn’t as if there was any bad blood; she was already Simón’s age with ambitions that she’s entitled to pursue, so Magnus knew—even back when she was still Alison’s age—that she will leave the very home that nurtured her potentials. And she did it so that she can live among human societies wherein she believed she can contribute to, more than she would otherwise have done so in Genosha.

Well, that was the official story anyway. And Magnus kept the truth from Simón, until the younger man disclosed that recurring dream he claimed to be prophetic. He was by no means superstitious, but what Simón said alarmed him nonetheless.

_‘Be reasonable’_ , he told himself, as he waited for his daughter to approve the conference between their consoles. Dreams are a mystery psychoanalysts want to solve. They do not belong in the same realm as hard facts.

Another minute passed before the connection was made. The staircase in which Magnus had been sitting on lit up in translucent silver, almost like it’s been frozen. He then cast the hologram image of Anya so that he can see the realistic three-dimensional projection of her across from him.

She wore the same colors as he, the maroon and gray complementing her dark skin. It stung a little to be reminded how much she looked like Magda; that is, if only his late wife lived long enough to reach her late forties. Her eyes were the same shade of blue as his, however, with a strong jawline that made her less pretty and more handsome as far as features go.

“Dad,” she sounded somewhat surprised yet there was relief too, as if she’d been counting on this all along, “It’s been a while.”

_“She didn’t feel right, Magnus. It felt…like she’s been waiting for this day—the day I would die. And when I begged her to help me, oh god, yes, I actually had to beg—Anya looked me right in the eye and said: ‘I’m going to rectify the errors in our history and present to save the future. I’m going to erase this world’.”_

Magnus rose to his feet. “Yes, it has. And there are things we need to talk about—things we both know we have put off for too long, _schatz_. But I need you to come back to Genosha first.”

_“Anya really said,_ _ɴᴏ_ _ᴍᴏʀᴇ_ _ᴍᴜᴛᴀɴᴛ_ _ꜱ_ _’. And then she pulled out some type of weapon I’ve never seen before—and shot me.”_

“I guess I can do that,” Anya shrugged as she looked to the side for a second before meeting her father’s gaze. “But I’m taking a route straight to the Cove. No other meetings between that whatsoever.”

“No meetings with Simón, you mean.”

Anya went quiet. And then she replied, “Give me four days. I’ll see you then, Dad.”

* * *

**ﾒ**

**[@ATOMICCLEF](https://twitter.com/atomicclef) **

**ﾒ**

* * *


End file.
